Violet and Alice
by Coriander Tea
Summary: A modern interpretation of 'The Copper Beeches'.  A missing girl, a job offer too good to be true, a lonely house, a family with a disturbed child, red hair, and copper beech trees.  Even if you know that story, you don't know this one.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This fic is based on the original Arthur Conan Doyle story 'The Adventure of the Copper Beeches', which I highly recommend. In the original, Violet Hunter and Alice Rucastle also have unusually beautiful red hair, and many of the other elements from 'Copper Beeches' will also appear in this fic. However, the story will not turn out exactly the same. For one thing, Alice Rucastle is not a child in the original, but no more spoilers. I would be remiss if I did not thank Chalcedony Rivers for her excellent Beta services.

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><p>"It's about a missing child," the woman at our door pleaded. One of the bulbs in the fixture was out, so in the half-light, her pallid face stood out as a ghostly, disembodied thing against her dark hair and clothing.<p>

"Then surely the police or Child Services are more appropriate agencies to appeal to," Sherlock replied, rudely.

"I went to the police, but they said since she was missing from Hampshire instead of London, it wasn't their jurisdiction and one weird phone call wasn't proof. When I tried to explain the circumstances, this Sergeant Donovan said 'For a freak job you need a freak job. Go see Sherlock Holmes at 221B Baker St.' She was so contemptuous that I didn't wait for the referral number for Child Services. I thought that if that's how the police view me, then…

"So here I am. Please, Mr. Holmes. Her name is Alice Rucastle and she's only seven."

Fumbling in her purse, she brought out her phone, pressed a few buttons, and extended it to us. On the screen, a unnaturally stiff and solemn child in a blue dress looked back at us. She had a pinched, haunted look on her face, and that, with the long hair streaming over her shoulders, made me think of Oliver Twist or Little Nell, of an era with workhouses and poorhouses instead of the dole and subsidized housing.

"Seven, seventeen, seventy, it makes no difference to me," Sherlock began savagely, but Mrs. Hudson had come up behind us and had a look herself.

"Only seven?" she asked. "Poor thing. Sherlock, there isn't much I put my foot down about, but I'll tell you this: You can hear this young lady out or you can go looking for another flat. And I mean it."

Sherlock assessed our landlady's expression, then smiled brilliantly, silkily shifting gears. "As I said, seven, seventeen or seventy, it's all one to me if she is possibly in danger. Come in, won't you, Ms—?"

"Hunter. Violet Hunter," said the woman, and came in, looking around at the mess with a creased brow. In a better light, she looked to be about twenty-five, with a pleasantly attractive, unabashedly freckled face, brown eyes, and truly remarkable dark red hair. There are more dyed red-heads than born red-heads out there, but from the length and texture, hers was natural. Neither gingery or carroty, it had a hint of purple to it, like a freshly shelled horse chestnut. It bumped her up from being just an attractive woman to an unforgettable one.

Unless the color was off in the photo, Alice Rucastle had hair exactly like hers. A shade lighter, maybe, but people's hair does darken as they age.

"Please, have a seat. That's my associate, Dr. John Watson, and anything you say to me you can say to him. Mrs. H, why don't you make us all a spot of tea?"

Mrs. Hudson might have liked to remind him she wasn't our housekeeper, but if so she swallowed it. "Of course. Sit down and tell them all about it, dear. What lovely hair you have. You should be doing shampoo adverts."

"Thank you," Ms. Hunter took the basket chair, and opened her mouth, but Sherlock, who had flopped down on the sofa, raised a languid finger.

"You are, or rather were, since you are currently unemployed, the child's nanny. You were sacked—three months ago? Four? Not for any negligence or wrongdoing, but because Alice's mother felt threatened by her daughter's attachment to you, and vice versa."

"Yes—oh, Sgt. Donovan phoned you, didn't she?" Ms. Hunter asked.

"No. Sally Donovan would not call me if she were being burned and tortured in Hell and I was the only one who could save her. Not without direct orders from a superior, anyhow. I could tell all that from looking at you. Despite the startling similarity of your hair, you are not Alice's mother, neither in the conventional way or any other. The police would have taken you more seriously in that case. Also, obviously you've never given birth, and if you were ever pregnant, one way or another it ended before your pelvic girdle shifted or your breasts swelled. No bra, and still perky as a ski ramp."

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson called from the kitchen, scandalized.

"You're not supposed to comment on that sort of thing," I told him wearily. I had noticed, though. Ms. Hunter had superb…structural integrity.

"He can say whatever he likes about my breasts if he can only find Alice," Violet Hunter replied, sounding as weary as I did.

"Now I know you're serious," Sherlock nodded. "Yes, John, I know enough not to say things like that. I was testing her."

"Testing all of us, more like," I muttered.

"Moving along," Sherlock said, "She might be your sister, your niece, or your cousin, but again they would have taken you more seriously and your attitude is wrong. Why are _you_ raising the alarm instead of her parents? Because there's something wrong within the family and has been for some time. You believe they may be involved.

"Where family is suspect, people either circle the wagons to protect them or burn them at the stake. Sometimes both. No, you're _not_ family.

"So, what are you? A neighbor? A teacher? No. People can manage to keep up a façade around outsiders for a few minutes, a few hours, but among those they live with, the masks slip off. What role in their lives would you fill that would put you into such intimate contact and inspire you with such feeling? You care about this child because you've cared for this child. Hence, you were the nanny. That's partly why the authorities aren't taking you seriously. They hear 'let go' and think 'disgruntled ex-employee.'

"Finally, as to when you were fired, I look at your attire. You're aware of fashion but not a slave to it—your apparel is stylish, well-cared for, and of good quality, but those are last season's colors. The only exception is your shoes. Those are new, and a distinct downgrade from the rest. You truly needed a new pair, but you couldn't justify spending enough on them to bring them in line with the rest of your wardrobe. Last year at this time, you had a steady income. Now you don't."

Sherlock had spewed out all of that like a rapid fire machine-gun, allowing no word in edge-wise.

Glancing at the stunned look on Ms. Hunter's face, I answered the question in her eyes when she turned to me. "Yes, he's always like that, except when he's even worse."

"I feel as though I walked in here naked," she said.

"Actually, if you had I wouldn't be able to tell nearly as much about you," Sherlock said, sitting up because Mrs. Hudson was bringing over the tea.

"Enough of that, you. Time for Miss Hunter to tell you a few things you don't already know. They say the first twenty-four hours are crucial when a child's gone missing. Here you are, dear." She handed our visitor a mug.

"Thank you. Please call me Violet," Miss Hunter said.

"They say, they say," Sherlock mocked. "Who, _exactly_ are they?"

"I have a telly and there are more crime shows on than you can shake a stick at," our landlady reproved him. "Hush. Let Violet talk."

"Thank you." She looked down at the mug in her hands, turned it around, sniffing at the steam. "I can't tell you about what happened without beginning with how I met Alice and her family in the first place. I never set out to become a nanny, trained for it, or even applied for the job.

"If my career had gone as I planned, I'd be outselling J.K. Rowling right now, but until the million pound book deal goes through—. I graduated from University with a degree in Literature, overeducated, unemployable and in debt. Like everybody else in those circumstances, I got a job at Borders Books. Working retail was another thing I hadn't set out to do. It's awful, to be quite honest. Between the people who somehow can't think to turn a book over to read the price on the back, and the ones who treat bookstores as if they were lending libraries, buying one book and then exchanging it over and over for a new one once they've read the last, it's enough to drive you spare.

"The parents, though, are the worst. The most annoying ones are those who give their kiddie a book or a toy out of our stock to gum on while they go through the store, and then when they get to the till, they hand it to you and say, 'Oh, I'm not buying this. I just gave it to him so he'd be quiet.' Leaving you with this object in your hands dripping with baby spit, and thinking, 'That's all right, I'll just wring it out and it'll be good as new.' You always wind up throwing them out.

"But the most disturbing ones are those who treat us as we were car-parks and their children were cars. Some parents leave their children—even quite young ones, hardly school age—in the kids' section and go off, sometimes for hours. Often they're not even in the store. I've no idea what they do—have their nails done, go to lunch, have it off with a secret lover... The point is, we, the store staff, we're not baby-sitters. We have work to do and we can't be looking out for kids all the time. _Anyone_ could take off with a child under those circumstances, from luring them into the restroom to molest them, to making them vanish forever.

"Once I put up a sign saying, 'Unattended children will be given a puppy, a whistle, and a large double mocha frappe with extra sugar', but Management made me take it down." Her mouth twitched in an attempt at a smile. "That was how I met Alice, because her mother left her there.

"One day, my co-worker Linda sidled up to me and said, 'Vi, you sly thing, you never told me you had a daughter.'

"'I don't,' I replied. 'What are you talking about?'

"'Over in the story corner, look. I'd know that head of hair anywhere.' I went round into the kids section and had a look. Linda was right about one part of it. There was a child sitting there with hair like mine. It runs in my family, on my mum's side. I have two younger half brothers with it too.

"I looked at this little girl, and she just looked like the saddest thing in the world. You saw in the picture—her mother dresses her almost like it was a century ago, her own little Alice in Wonderland. Always in skirts, hard shoes, and her hair down so if she does anything but sit still, she gets dirty, scuffed and tangled. Then she has to be disciplined, of course…

"I think Anna—Mrs. Rucastle, that is—should have stuck with collecting porcelain dolls or something. But that touches on things I only learned later.

"On that day, I went over and said, 'Hello, sweetheart. Are you all right? Where's your mum?'

"She whispered, 'She's coming back for me at three.'

"It was only just one. I nodded, though, and said, 'All right. If you need anything or you have to go to the bathroom or somebody bothers you, I'll be right round the corner straightening Cookbooks, okay? My name's Violet. What's yours?'

"'Alice Rucastle.' She whispered again.

" 'Hello, Alice. Would you like a book to look at? We've got lots.'

"It was only a very small joke, but a normal little girl would have giggled or something. She only said, 'I'm supposed to look with my eyes, not with my fingers.'

"'And when there are breakables around, that's a good rule. But I think looking at books is okay if you're careful. Here.' I didn't know how well she might be able to read, since she looked to be about five, so I picked up a few David Wiesner books—he's an American illustrator whose books don't depend on words—and leafed through one with her, then encouraged her to pick up the next before I went back to Linda, who was stretching her ears out eavesdropping.

"'Her mum's coming back for her at three,' I said, and went back to work.

"Alice wasn't an attractive child—needy children are the least attractive—I mean, she wasn't the kind that makes people coo at her cuteness. There was nothing wrong with her features except her expression. I have seen her when she looked very happy and she was as pretty as you could want a little girl to be. I was very curious to see what her mother would be like, and I arranged to be around the kids section when three o'clock came.

"Anna Rucastle is—I want to say 'raw-boned', even though it's an old-fashioned expression. Too thin, with prominent facial bones that aren't harmonious. She was in her forties, old enough to be my mother, rather than Alice's, but then lots of women put off motherhood until the last possible moment or even later, thanks to fertility advances. Her hair was the same shade as Alice's, but it had that dead, dull look that hair gets when it's dyed too much. She went over to Alice, said something, and Alice got up and followed her without a word. They didn't hug. They didn't show any expression at all.

"After that, I kept an eye out for Alice, just because. She was the only child who got left there on a regular basis, and that was unusual. At least three times a week, she would be there for at least an hour each time. I always made sure to say 'Hi,' no matter how busy we were, and when it was slow, I'd sit with her a little. If she was there for more than two hours, I'd get her a glass of milk from the café. There was something—I didn't think much of it at the time…" Violet paused.

"But in retrospect it became significant," Sherlock drew her out.

"Yes. Retail workers don't have regular hours, not nine-to-five, unless they're management. It can be eight to three one day, two to ten the next, and so on. Our days off change from week to week as well. I asked Linda once if she could look out for Alice on my days off, and she said, 'No need. When you're not here, she's never here.'"

"So Anna Rucastle was keeping track of your schedule?" I asked.

"More likely she came in, looked around for Violet and left when she didn't see her," Mrs. Hudson added.

"Either way, it means Mrs. Rucastle was aware of Ms. Hunter. What did it lead to?" Sherlock asked.

"A job offer," Violet Hunter replied. "After several months, they stopped coming. It was summer, and Alice had once mentioned they had a place in the country, so I thought they must have gone there. I—missed Alice a little. I didn't care that much about her, back then. Not as I came to. Then one day _Mr._ Rucastle came in…"

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><p>TBC, maybe, if people are interested. My other Sherlock fic isn't exactly burning up the Interwubs, so I had another go.<p> 


	2. Mr Rucastle

Violet Hunter continued, "Jephro Rucastle is at least ten or twelve years older than his wife, I would say, and portly, with silver hair and eyebrows like thick dashes of ink. He came up while I was ringing up customers, and said, 'You must be Violet! My little Alice talks about you all the time.'

"My first reaction was to think, _What are you trying to put over on me?_ because I could not imagine Alice talking all the time, about me or anything else, and he must have read that disbelief on my face. His expression changed to something sadder, and he added, 'As much as she talks about anything, that is. Listen, I must speak to you on something urgent, but I can see that you're busy. I'll be in the café, so whenever you can, meet me there.'

"I wanted to get whatever it was done and over with, so I cleared it with my supervisor and joined him within a quarter of an hour. After the polite preliminaries, he got down to business. 'Anna and I are expecting another child,' he said, with a tender smile.

"'How wonderful!' I exclaimed, but my heart sank at the thought of another repressed, depressed child trailing after Mrs. Rucastle and wondering how long it would be before she started leaving them both in Borders for hours. 'Is Alice excited about having a baby brother or sister?'

"'Oh, yes. Perhaps too much so. You see, my wife is rather older than most new mothers, I'm sure you know, and there are already…complications.' He thanked me for my murmurs of sympathy and went on. 'If she is not to lose this baby, she has to be on complete bed-rest and have nothing to stress her. Nothing at all. She also has to stay in town and close to her doctors. Now, while she loves Alice deeply, as is only natural, the demands of a six-year-old are more than she can bear right now. Oh, we've told Alice she must be careful and let her Mummy rest, but six-year-olds are like sieves—in ten minutes she's forgotten again and climbing back up on the bed to ask Anna for something.

"'What we want, to be brief, is someone to take charge of Alice completely. Not only to take charge of her, but to take her to our country place and take care of her there. I've looked into it, and three thousand pounds a month seems to be the average salary for a professional nanny. Room and board will be included, of course, a thousand pounds a month expenses for Alice, and the use of a car. Our place is in Hampshire, beautiful country, and we've a couple of horses, a bit of woods with a stream—oh, and the Rucastle Kennels. We breed mastiffs, you know, or my wife does. All the animal care is handled by a couple we have living there, and you wouldn't have to bother about any of that unless you wanted to. It would be for at least six months, until the baby comes, and very likely longer, until my wife recovers and is into a new routine with another child.'

"'Me?' I said, and yes, I said it feeling rather stupid, 'I couldn't possibly. I—I'm not a nanny, I have no childcare experience at all, beyond watching my brothers now and then, and that was ten years ago. Plus—I mean, wanting me to uproot my entire life and move to Hampshire for six months, at least? I thank you for thinking of me, and I appreciate the offer, but—.'"

Violet paused to sip her tea and look around at us. "Three thousand pounds a month was a lot more than I was making at the bookstore, and a sum like that _sounds_ generous on the surface, but it wasn't a forty hour a week job or even a sixty hour a week job. It would be twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, and that's a hundred and sixty-eight hours, and no relief. I mean, what was I supposed to do if she got sick in the night? Ignore her because I was off duty? Even with all the perks, it didn't sound like a good deal, and I wasn't qualified anyhow. Not to mention that something smelled about the whole thing like the back alley behind a fish shop after two weeks into a rubbish-men's strike.

"So my reply was, 'I'm terribly sorry, but no. At those wages, I'm sure you'll find a nanny who would be much better at it than I could possibly be, a professional with training and experience.'

"'We've already tried a few of them. Alice didn't like them. She likes you.'

"'She only knows me as that nice lady at the bookshop,' I protested. 'She doesn't know me, and unless you've done a ton of background checking, you don't know me either, any more than I know you. How can you think of putting your daughter's life and wellbeing into the hands of a complete stranger?' At that, I got up from the table.

"'That's exactly why,' he replied, standing when I did. 'Because you have concerns and reservations; because you don't take it lightly or on a whim. You are the right person to be Alice's nanny. However, I can see I've pressed you too far today. Here—take my number, and if you should change your mind—.'"

"Three thousand…when they might have got a Norland girl for that kind of money. What kind of sense does that make?" Mrs. Hudson asked. "Not that she'd be better for the poor thing that you were, but still—."

"Norland girl?" I asked, trying to place the name.

"A Norland Nurse, they call them. Norland is a special nanny training school, the best in the world. Their graduates get first-aid certification, courses in cooking for children, all kinds of child development classes. There's more demand for them than there are graduates." Mrs. H explained.

"Indeed," Sherlock said, putting down his cup. "Why should they offer you so much?...It was, of course, Mrs. Rucastle's idea. Mr. Rucastle knew nothing of you except through her. Continue, please."

"All right—I did _not_ change my mind. In fact, I threw the number out, and I did not regret it. Not for a week. Not until we were all called together for an early morning conference call, and learned that our location was shutting down. It's easy to be proud about refusing three thousand pounds a month when you've got a job already, but when you're facing unemployment in six weeks' time—suddenly I felt like such a fool. I made up my mind to do an online search for the Rucastles, praying that they hadn't found a nanny in the meantime—when Mr. Rucastle came back. He came back that very day.

"'I have not been entirely honest with you, Ms. Hunter,' he began when I joined him in the cafe.

"'In what way?' I asked. I had already made up my mind to accept, but whatever he had to say might be a deal breaker.

"About Alice. She's autistic,' He looked down at his hands. 'Perhaps you already guessed.'

"'Not in the least,' I said. 'Every time I've spoken to her, she's seemed normal, if a bit quiet and shy.'

He nodded heavily, 'That's why we want you so badly. You are the only person she's ever responded to in a normal way. Why, I have no idea. Perhaps it's your hair. Whatever the reason, we are appealing to you as the Kellers to Annie Sullivan for their daughter Helen. Give us our daughter back. Please.'"

"And how did you respond to this piteous plea for your help?" Sherlock leaned forward, a cat readying itself to pounce.

"I thought it was a cheap and manipulative ploy," Violet Hunter replied. "I didn't like it or him, but my chances of finding another job that paid so well any time soon were wretchedly low. Also-it seemed to me that his revelation was too casual, the diagnosis of her condition too simple for the tension between Anna and Alice. Not that I'm implying that autism is simple, but being able to put a name to whatever is wrong should be a relief. But if I refused, if they went searching for someone else, whoever they found might be worse. If it were me, at least there would be someone on Alice's side.

"I was about to accept, but he must have taken my hesitation for another refusal, because then Mr. Rucastle added, 'I realize this will be disruptive and an inconvenience. To that end, we're raising our offer to five thousand a month.'

"'Yes,' I said. I nearly exploded, actually. 'But with conditions. I want a contract, a written, legal contract, stating the exact terms of my employment and signed by both parents. I want to speak to Mrs. Rucastle and get to know Alice a little better first. When would you want me to start?'

"His face creased into a wide smile of genuine relief and pleasure. 'Tomorrow could hardly be too soon-What about the first of July?'

Sherlock held up a hand for her to stop, and his face contorted in thought. "Five thousand a month-for an untrained, inexperienced and unqualified nanny to take on a case of autism. No. Five thousand a month for **_you _**to take over the care of Alice. Why you specifically? That sort of money should have bought her into any treatment program in the country. I'm no longer surprised the child is missing. I'm surprised you're not both missing, buried at the bottom of a mine shaft somewhere. Yet you worked for them, for those terms, for a year, and presumably the checks all cleared. What was Anna Rucastle playing at? Did you see her again before you went down to Hampshire?"

"Yes, for the contract signing," Violet Hunter closed her eyes. Even her eyelids were freckled. "I am so tired…"

"Put it aside, Ms. Hunter," Sherlock commanded. "How was Mrs. Rucastle when you met for the signing? How did she act toward you? Toward her daughter? Her husband?"

"She was happy. Radiantly happy. She did not look well at all—she was bedridden, sallow, drawn, and wasted, but she was happy. 'I've waited for this for so long,' she said. She and Mr. Rucastle seemed very affectionate toward each other, but—they both watched Alice like mice watch a snake."

Silence reigned for a moment before I asked for clarification. "You mean they acted as though they were apprehensive of her."

"Yes," Ms. Hunter said.

"Why?" I asked.

"I could only think that she had threatened her mother and the fetus in some way—threatened them with actual physical harm, perhaps even punched her in the belly, and that was both why they were afraid and why they wanted her away. As for Alice herself, she was doped to the eyeballs. When she spoke, it was like her words were fighting their way through glue. 'I'm….glad…to see….you again, Violet. I…I'm glad…you're going to….be my nan..nanny.' She could hardly hold her head up straight, and her eyes—the pupils were shrunk down to pinpricks, dots swimming in glacial water.

"'I looked to her parents for an explanation. 'Oh, her doctor has her on a new course of medication and she's not used to it yet. Don't worry, we'll make sure you have at least three months' supply and full instructions on her dosage and schedule.'"

"That's awful," Mrs. Hudson exclaimed. "To think that—and she only six years old then. No matter what she'd done—. Now I see why they wanted you. They wanted someone who wouldn't question them and make a fuss."

"If that was their intent, they picked the wrong nanny. It isn't that simple," Sherlock said. He looked as though he'd fallen asleep, sitting there listening with his eyes closed. "Do you have other photos of her on your phone?" he asked Violet Hunter.

"Yes." He reached out his hand for it. Opening his eyes, he scrolled through the pictures, making small noises of agreement or disdain. "Ms. Hunter, you are not much of a photographer."

"I never pretended I was and it's only a phone cam," Her worry overrode her indignation. "It was just for fun, anyhow."

"Fun," he repeated. "Yes, it does look as though you had fun. Especially here." He showed her which snapshot he meant before passing it to me.

You could tell it was the same child mainly by her hair. She was dressed in a t-shirt and shorts, splashed with mud and standing in a pond, a triumphant grin on her face as she held an enormous frog up for the camera.

Giving me a searching stare, Sherlock put me on the spot. "John, you must have seen a few things while you were a locum at that clinic. If Ms. Hunter had brought this tale to you as a doctor, what would you do?"

"Me?" I asked. "Frankly, I'd look at the child's medical records for signs of abuse, a history of broken bones and other injuries. Is she medicated or not in this picture?"

"Not." Violet Hunter said. "I stopped giving her them the morning after we got to Hampshire. All the way down on the train, I was looking up those meds on my tablet and—I figured, she could always go back on them. That was a good day, that day in the pond. There were a lot of bad days before we got to that point. But she didn't need all of what they had her on—and—How much more do I have to tell you before you decide to take the case or we start looking for her?"

I had been wondering that myself. Sherlock replied, "I decided to take the case a quarter of an hour ago. It won't do any good to go charging out into the night looking for Alice before I know where to look. It would only waste time, which is what we are doing right now while you're not talking about what else went on. Just keep talking until I tell you to stop."

"Oooh, do you know what this reminds me of?" Mrs. Hudson interjected. "That story by M.R. James—no, it was Henry James, that was the name. _The Turn of the Screw_, where there's this young governess who takes this job looking after two children, a girl and a boy, on the condition that she never bothers their guardian about them, ever. Not ever. Not even if there' an emergency. So she goes down to the estate and finds out that their last governess had a lover who she let molest the children, and now both she and her lover are dead, but _they haven't left_. I'm sorry, I know this is real and it's serious, but it does put me in mind of it."

"It's an apt comparison," Violet Hunter agreed, "somebody completely inexperienced trying to put a damaged child to rights again. I wish I'd gotten stuck in _Jane Eyre_ instead, because there I'd get a Mr. Rochester and a happy ending eventually."

"You're talking, but there is no information in what you're saying," Sherlock cut in. "Give me _details_. Give me your observations about the real world, not your inner fantasies, _thank you_."

"All right! We were met at Winchester Station by Mrs. Toller, one of the two kennel keepers, and she was…a very large woman, large in all dimensions. Later middle age, too, so gravity was winning out. We had quite a bit of luggage between us, given that it was to be six months we were spending there. Mrs. Toller took the two biggest cases, but she wheezed as she carried them to an ancient station wagon which reeked of dog, not least because there was a huge mastiff in the back. 'Two birds with one stone,' she said, 'I've just come from collecting Dexy from the vet's. Sorry, but you'll have to squeeze in the back seat with your luggage, I can't go crowding him. That's Champion Dexter Gryphon Leohart, that is.'

"Alice pressed up against me when she saw the dog, putting me between her and it. 'Oh, still scared of anything that barks?' Mrs. Toller chided her. 'It was two years ago now, and Rina would never have bitten you if you hadn't been messing about with her pups.'

"I was glad of Alice's reaction, not because I liked the idea of her being afraid of dogs or of being bitten, but because it was the first spontaneous reaction I'd seen from her yet. We crammed ourselves uncomfortably into the back seat among all our things, and I leaned over to whisper to her, 'Can I tell you a secret? I'm afraid of big dogs, too.'

"She looked at me with surprise and gratitude. 'It was a bad, bad dog.' she whispered back.

"'I believe you,' I replied.

"'What are you on about back there?' Mrs. Toller asked. 'No secrets, now. Anyway, the estate is called 'Copper Beeches', and it's more than eighty-six acres all told, mostly forest and not lit, so don't go wandering at night without a torch. You'll be staying in the Barn House. You'll know why it's called that when you see it, and I've laid in some basic groceries and things. I go shopping every Monday, so I'll need your list by Sunday night if you want anything. Otherwise, you can get it yourself. You'll have the keys to the Mini Cooper, but whatever you do and whatever he says, don't go loaning them to my old man. He lost his license last year for driving under the influence and won't give up…"

"She talked all through the drive, telling me about the neighbors, the area, and far, far more than I ever wanted to know about the care and breeding of mastiffs. 'Here we are,' she said finally, as she pulled into a graveled drive. That's the Barn House.' I shaded my eyes and looked at the place we would be living. It was an old barn, made of stone and tiled with slate, converted into a dwelling, two stories high and more rustic than impressive.

"'I would have expected a manor house or something,' I said, unfolding myself from the car. 'Are you trapped in all the luggage, Alice? Here, let me get that buckle…'

"'Not any more,' Mrs. Toller said. 'It's been gone for sixty, seventy years. Back in the Seventies, they did the barn over into a house. It's still got the wood burning stoves, and there's no air conditioning, but the walls are eighteen inches thick and made of stone, so you hardly need them. It'll be nice and cool inside. Let's see, what else?

"'There's only a half-bath on the first floor, and only one full bath on the second, and when you take a shower you have to leave one of the windows open a crack or the damp'll build up. Also, you'll find there's no mobile service out here. Land lines only, I'm afraid. All the numbers you'll likely need are posted by the kitchen phone, ours included. If you've got any questions, you've only to ask.'

"'I have one,' I put in. 'What exactly is going on in the Rucastle family?'

She froze up for a moment before she replied. "'Any question but that. Now I've got to see Dexy settled back in. Best of luck, Ms. Hunter.' Left unsaid were the words: _you're going to need it_."


End file.
